


A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 3

by TheNightComesDown



Series: A Gentlemen's Agreement [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Fluff, Queen AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: After an abrupt end to your pleasant afternoon outing, you find yourself back at John's flat.





	A Gentlemen's Agreement - Pt. 3

**Author's Note:**

> A little later than I promised at the end of the last part, but I ended up reworking a significant section of this because I wrote it angsty when what my heart wanted was fluffy.

Although he was exhausted, John managed to give you directions from Brockwell Park to Putney, where he had been renting a flat since he had split with his wife. After you parked the car, you slowly accompanied him up the stairs and to the end of the hall, where he drowsily fumbled with the lock on the door.

“Oh, fuck off,” he complained, trying to get the key to turn properly. With a gentle hand, you took over, opening the door with ease. John shot you an appreciative look before stumbling into the entryway. You followed closely behind him, pushing the door shut before removing your shoes on the rug. 

“Isn’t this lovely?” you smiled, stepping into what appeared to be the sitting room. A short leather sofa sat in the centre of the room, facing a TV set up on a short bookshelf. The record player you had heard over the phone that morning was situated in the corner of the room, atop a shelf filled with what you guessed to be in the range of several hundred records. You’d never seen such a collection - John was clearly a musician. 

“I’m going to lie down on the couch,” John announced groggily. You put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and felt the damp, sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt. 

“Why don’t you rinse off in the shower and put on some comfortable clothes?” you recommended. “Wouldn’t that make you feel much better?” He nodded slowly, realizing that you were probably correct. He'd managed to get a full bottle of water down in the car on the way home, but he was still in rough shape. 

“If you’re hungry, dig around in the pantry, the fridge or the freezer,” he offered, turning slightly green at the thought of food. You watched him as he tottered into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Even after his long bout of nausea, the thought of him still made your head spin. 

You'd met John at the club only two days before, but you knew already that the deal you'd made with him was going to fall through. The nearly 15-year age difference felt like nothing when you'd realized how charming, how kind and down-to-earth and intelligent he was. No 25-year-old college boy could rival a man like John, in your mind. 

Your stomach had been growling for some time, despite watching John's episode at the park, so you went to work looking through his kitchen. As he had said, there were several options to be had. After searching for basics such as noodles or beans, you decided to bake a small lasagna, which had been pre-made and frozen in a disposable aluminium baking tray. It looked to be something John had made himself, and you didn’t think it looked half bad. A single man of 39 had to cook for himself, after all. 

You turned the oven on and left it to preheat. Instead of sitting down on the couch like a polite houseguest, you headed straight for the shelves of records - John was in the shower, and probably wouldn't mind if you snooped around a bit. After flicking through the first shelf, you realized that John had organized them in alphabetical order, and sectioned them off by genre; he was clearly an organized man. One sleeve caught your eye, being something you remembered your father playing on the old, beat-up turntable you’d had in your home growing up. You slid the vinyl from its sleeve and fit it onto the turntable's spindle. After setting the needle down on the edge of the record and adjusting the volume, the iconic voice of Marvin Gaye filled the room. 

Hanging from the wall above the record player were photos of John and his children; you still couldn’t believe that his oldest was a teen, and his youngest a toddler. They all looked happy in the photos, John especially. Beside these frames was a group photo of John and his bandmates, which didn’t appear recent. John’s hair went past his shoulders, and Freddie was clean-shaven. It was sweet, you thought, that he kept a photo from their early days displayed in his home. It was clear that these were the people who meant the most to him in the world. 

By the time the oven was ready and you’d put the lasagna in, the thrum of water through the bathroom pipes had ceased, indicating that John had finished his shower. Settling in on the sofa, you closed your eyes and enjoyed the upbeat tempo and jazzy feel of the music playing. Listening more attentively now than you had as a child, you realized that Marvin Gaye’s lyrics had strong sexual undertones; you hoped John wouldn’t get the wrong idea if he walked out of his room right now. Silly, you told yourself; John had no interest in you that way, and would probably not even think about any ulterior motive you may have had when you'd subconsciously selected the record from the hundreds of others in the collection. 

With your eyes closed, it took you longer than it should have to realize that another soft voice had joined with Marvin’s. John stood in the doorway of his bedroom, singing along to the record. He held a large glass of water in his hand, sipping at it liberally. 

“Good choice, R&B,” he spoke, startling you. He was rubbing a small towel against his head to dry his short curls. 

“Christ, John,” you exclaimed, putting a hand to your chest, “have you been standing there long?” His cheeks were still pink with sun, but he looked much more comfortable now in a white t-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms. The shirt stuck to his torso in a few places where he'd neglected to dry himself completely. You felt colour rise in your cheeks as you realized you were ogling him. 

“Not long,” he smiled apologetically, shaking his head. His shower had lasted nearly half an hour, and although he looked cleaner, his expression was one of exhaustion. His eyes were still red, and his eyelids drooped heavily. It wouldn't surprise you if he said he'd fallen asleep on the floor of the bathtub. The heat and his vomiting episode had sucked the energy right out of him. 

“Come sit,” you motioned toward the open space beside you. “I can move to the armchair if you want to stretch out.” He waved a hand dismissively, taking his place next to you on the sofa. The leather creaked as he collapsed beside you. 

“I’ll be fine here,” he assured you, patting your leg appreciatively. He tucked his sock-clad feet against his legs, stretching an arm comfortably across the back of the sofa. His long fingers nearly brushed your shoulder. His tired eyes settled on your face and held your gaze. 

“How are you feeling?” you asked, tilting your head with concern. “Can I get you something for your headache? Maybe some lotion for your cheeks? They're a bit pink from the sun.” You leaned forward, regarding him attentively. Although you knew he just needed fluids and a good rest, you wanted to do as much for him as you could. As exhausted as he was, you knew you'd still enjoy just sitting quietly beside him. 

“I'll be alright, love,” he chuckled, raising his glass slightly. “I think I must have drunk half the shower water, so I'm sure it’ll just take a few hours for me to feel tip-top again." He rested his head against the cool leather of the sofa, enjoying the relief it provided his sunburnt cheek. "I'm sorry about today, Y/N," he apologized, furrowing his brow. "It should have been a nice afternoon out, a break for both of us." You stopped him there, horrified that he'd even think such a thing. 

“John, you don’t need to apologize,” you insisted, reaching out and placing a hand on his thigh. He jumped slightly at your touch, but you didn’t pull away. “It was boiling outside, so it’s no surprise you weren’t feeling well. I had a lovely time, and I’m not upset at all.” A smile crept across your lips as you recalled the joy you’d felt feeding the ducks with him. 

“What is it?” he asked quizzically, observing you from beneath his half-closed lids. “You’ve got that look.” 

“It’s just…” you stopped, trying to think of the right words. “I…I haven’t enjoyed an afternoon out like I did today in I don’t know how long.” Your time at the club hadn’t been particularly conducive to spending time with friends. Being up all hours of the night made it a challenge to have any interest in outings during the day. Sleep mattered more. “Minus you getting sick, of course,” you added quickly. 

“I had a good time, too,” he murmured. “Life has been exhausting, to say the least, with all that’s been happening this year, so it was nice to have some time away from all that.” Where before he had been smiling, his face was now serious, almost grim. 

“Tell me about it,” you encouraged him gently. “I haven’t got anyone to tell, after all.” 

“I don’t want to burden you with my issues,” he protested, but you gave his leg a reassuring squeeze. 

“Really, John, I don’t mind," you insisted. "You asked for someone to listen and talk to, and here I am.” He watched you for any sign of hesitation but saw none. With a heavy sigh, he explained the most pressing issue with the band at the moment: Freddie’s failing health. 

“At first, we just thought it was something simple,” he started. “Maybe he and Jim were eating differently, or maybe he had begun exercising more. He’s always been an active man, but he’s also been drinking like a fish for the last 15 years, so I thought maybe it was that he’d stopped drinking so heavily.” He fidgeted anxiously with the band of his wristwatch, clipping and unclipping it. 

“But it wasn’t that,” you guessed, swallowing hard as you anticipated what he would say. It had been a hot rumour in the news, Freddie’s sickness. They had all denied it vehemently, but now you knew there must be some truth to it. You’d heard about it before meeting John, you just didn’t know when you first saw him that he was a member of Queen. 

“It wasn't any of that,” he shook his head sadly. “He’s lost a lot of weight; too much, really. And he’s exhausted all the time. I’d hoped it was just stress or a bad flu, anything but this.” His chin began to quiver, and he bit his lip in an attempt to keep from tearing up. “I'm watching my closest friend slip away and I can't do a damn thing about it.” He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. 

“I’m so sorry, John” you murmured. "There's nothing anyone can say to make this better, and I'm sorry about that, too." You reached out and took his hand between yours, lifting to your lips and pressing a kiss against his knuckles. 

"Why...?" he asked, frowning in confusion. "You don't have to--" 

"Sometimes, when the right words don't exist, all we can offer is a comforting touch," you explained, running your thumb along the back of his hand. "Would you let me try something? It'll seem strange at first, but I swear that when my Mum did it for me as a kid, it always made my heart hurt less." 

"Is your mother a sorceress or a witch?" he asked hesitantly, only slightly joking. "I'd really like to keep my hands. They're kind of important if I want to continue to make a living." 

"No, silly," you chided, "she was a homemaker. Just humour me, alright? Scootch a little closer to me and give me your arm." John did as you asked, extending his arm towards you. You held his wrist in one hand, his elbow in the other, adjusting the limb so the pale inner side of his arm was facing up. 

"Is this one of those acupuncture things?" 

"Have some faith, John," you frowned. "I got you home today, didn't I?" He grumbled quietly, but watched with intrigue as you began to trace your fingers along the skin of his arm. It tickled at first, so he tried his best not to wiggle, but after a while, he started to feel an odd warmth travelling up his arm as if had poured a bowl of bathwater onto his skin. 

"What's it doing?" he yawned, laying his head against the back of the couch. "It feels funny." 

"Hush now," you murmured, "it won't work if you're talking." Although you were only touching his arm with the pads of your fingers, he felt that whatever you were doing was very intimate, as if your very energy was caressing his mind and body. 

You continued to dance your fingers across his arm until John had fallen asleep, at which point you gently kissed his temple and let him rest. The scent of lasagna was beginning to fill the room, so you hurried to the kitchen to check on it. The only thing worse than being hungry was burning the food you'd spent time preparing. 

As your feet pattered across the kitchen tiles, the corner of John's mouth quirked up in a smile; your kiss had not gone unnoticed. 

* * * * * 

After 2 hours, John began to stir beside you. You had found a book with an interesting back-cover synopsis on his bookcase, and were 100 pages in when his eyes flickered open. 

"Hey, you," he smiled, "how's it going?" He released a groan of satisfaction as he stretched his legs towards you, tucking his feet between the couch and your left hip. He wiggled his toes, and you smacked his shin playfully, eliciting a short laugh from him. 

"Just fine, thanks," you replied, "how was your nap?" His shirt had ridden up his torso as he shifted his body, showing off a strip of his stomach - your lips parted as you snuck a glance. John cleared his throat, and your eyes snapped back up to his. The grin he was attempting to suppress told you that he'd caught you staring. 

"My nap was lovely," he answered, gently tapping against your hip with his foot. "How much do you charge for lulling men to sleep with your witch-magic?" 

"I took my payment in lasagna," you said, patting your stomach. "There's still some in the pan if you want to heat it up in the microwave." John craned his neck back, peering into the kitchen. 

"I might take you up on that," he answered, "I'm not queasy anymore, and I reckon it'd do me well to have something of substance in my stomach." He sat for another minute before getting up, observing you as your eyes scanned the pages of your book. 

"Can I help you?" you wondered, glancing up at him over the tops of your reading glasses, which you had retrieved from the bottom of your bag. 

"Just enjoying the view," he shrugged, hauling himself up off the sofa to microwave whatever remained of the lasagna. "Can I grab you a beer or a fizzy drink, Y/N?" You gaped at him, still surprised by his comment. 

"Just enjoying the view?" you called after him. 

"You look good in glasses," he hollered back. "I didn't know you wore them." The microwave door slammed shut, and a series of beeps followed. 

"John Deacon, you come back here," you exclaimed, setting your book down. 

"What can I do for you, milady?" he asked with a teasing formality, peeking his head around the kitchen wall. You crooked a finger, beckoning him towards you. He obliged, stopping just before his knees bumped against yours. 

"What's this about?" you demanded, quirking an eyebrow curiously. "You're acting...different." He feigned confusion before bending down and pressing a kiss to your temple, exactly as you had done to him an hour earlier. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," he insisted, returning to the kitchen. He remained there for several minutes; the clink of metal against ceramic told you he had decided to finish the lasagna off in the privacy of the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, you tucked your nose back into your book, frantically reading in an attempt at distracting yourself from the matter at hand. The kitchen sink ran as John rinsed his dish off, and a moment later, he was back in the sitting room. 

"Learn anything interesting?" he questioned, pretending to read over your shoulder. 

"Give me just one second, please," you requested, softly patting his cheek with your hand, "I'm close to the end of my page."

“Would you mind if I put on some music, Y/N?” John murmured, the honey-sweet tone of his voice pulling you away from your book before you could even finish the next paragraph. 

“What’s that?” you responded, finally looking up. You’d heard the rumble of his voice, but hadn't really connected the words together in understanding. His head hovered directly beside your own, close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek if you were brave enough. 

“Could I put a different record on?" he inquired. "I have one I think you might enjoy." You had replaced Marvin Gaye with _Revolver_ , your favourite Beatles album. 

“Sure," you nodded, setting the book aside, "I trust your taste in music." Walking over to the turntable, John set the needle aside and slid the last album back into its sleeve, replacing it with a smooth Ellington record. The sound was distinctly older, you noted, but you couldn’t place the tune. Jazz and swing had never been your go-to, but you liked it well enough. John clearly had something specific in mind. 

“Come on, then,” he said, holding a hand out to you. “We’ll have to push the sofa back to make room.” 

“Make room for what?” you inquired, cocking your head in confusion. 

“To dance, of course,” he grinned devilishly. For a moment, you thought he was taking the piss, but as he continued to stand before you, hand outstretched, you realized he really intended to make you dance. 

“Oh, no, no,” you protested, holding your hands in front of yourself. “I told you I don’t dance, John.” 

“Actually, you told me you don’t dance in the club,” he corrected. “That’s something different entirely. You have much more on today than you do when you’re at work.” With a groan, you let him pull you up from the sofa, and together you shifted the sofa to the back wall. 

“I don’t know how to dance to something like this,” you warned him. “I’ll look like a fool, and probably step on your toes.” John’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a sign of ageing that he disliked, but you thought to be sweet, like the patches of silver coming in at his temples. 

“Well I’m an excellent dancer,” he countered, “and the only other person here is me, so you can look as foolish as you like.” He took your hand in his and led you to the centre of the room, his eyes glittering with anticipation. 

Over the course of half an hour, John taught you a few basic swing dance steps, enough that you could keep up with him for the span of a song. He spun you in circles until you were dizzy, and you were sure the people who lived below him were growing tired of hearing the heavy thump of your footsteps against the hardwood floor. 

“You’re doing pretty well with this,” he complimented, spinning you out until only your fingertips touched. As he drew you back in, the song shifted to something smooth and slow, and John pulled you in close. With his hand settled on your hip, you swayed gently to the music, your eyes locked on each other. Where before you had both been breathless with laughter as your feet tangled together, your expressions were now serious, focused. 

John was nervous, but he hoped you couldn't tell. While he had been pretending to fall asleep earlier, he had been contemplating the idea of making a move. It was clear you were interested, and it became more clear when you had kissed his forehead while he "slept". From the moment he had spotted you from across the club, his concern had been the age difference. As he had been eating lasagna, he suddenly recalled that Roger's girlfriend Debbie was 15 years his junior; things seemed to be going very well for them, so what made it so impossible to imagine the two of you together? 

“John?” you whispered, looking up at him from beneath your eyelashes. He tilted his forehead towards you, resting it against your own. The record he'd chosen was perfect, you now realized. The rounded brass notes and mellow saxophone lines of Ellington's band created a naturally romantic atmosphere, encouraging both of you to be bold with your flirtations. 

“Yes, love?” he asked, a soft smile playing across his lips. Leaning in closer to your ear, he began to hum along to the music, his warm, sweet breath brushing against your ear. He smelled minty, as though he had chewed a breath mint after polishing off his lasagna. 

“I like this,” you admitted, leaning your head against his shoulder in what had become a loose embrace. "I like having you close to me." 

“How close?” he breathed, his nose brushing up against yours. After his hesitation earlier, you could hardly believe this was happening. That nap had worked wonders on his demeanour. 

“Closer,” you suggested, lifting your chin slightly. His mouth touched your cheek, missing your lips by only centimetres. 

“How about now?” 

“Closer.” 

John’s lips were soft against yours at first, tasting you slowly and sweetly. You ran your tongue along his bottom lip, an encouragement for him to continue. His chin grazed across your own, raking his stubble over your skin. You hummed against his mouth in satisfaction at the sensation. 

You released his hand, which you’d been holding as you danced together, and slipped your hands up into his curls. His own hands clutched at the small of your back, pulling you tightly against his chest. Warning you with a light tap of his foot against yours, he guided you backward until your back met the sitting room wall. When his lips moved down to your neck, you had a chance to breathe. He nipped playfully at your throat, making you giggle and writhe against his hold on you. 

John sucked at the skin above your collarbones, leaving a trail of red marks as he went along. As he bent down and nuzzled your breasts through your dress, his calloused hands grasped your upper thighs and slowly crept up the skirt of your dress. In any other circumstance, you wouldn't have dreamed of this sort of thing happening on what was essentially a "first date", but in this case, you had zero hesitation. 

“Don’t stop,” you begged, tugging firmly at his hair. His thumb grazed against your clit through your knickers, while his other hand cupped your bum and squeezed firmly. "Fuck, John," you panted, rolling your hips against his hand. One moment, he had you laughing, and the next you were biting your lip to stop yourself from crying out. 

“Is this what you want?” he asked breathily, glancing up from where his face had been buried between your breasts. His eyes were sharp, hungry; he wasn't messing around. 

“God, yes,” you answered, grasping handfuls of his shirt as you pulled him back up from where he had been kneeling before you. Your lips crashed together eagerly, like a pair of teenagers who had discovered themselves home alone. John let out a groan against your mouth, responding to the sensation of your hand against his erection. You grasped him firmly through the thin fabric of his tracksuit bottoms, circling his tip with your thumb. Unwilling to see you clothed any longer, John pulled away from the kiss and led you into his bedroom, swinging the door shut behind you. 

* * * * * 

“You don’t work tonight, do you?” John asked, trailing his fingers lightly across the skin of your back. You lay on your stomach beside him, one arm slung across his chest. The sheets were pulled up enough to cover you below the waist, but it was almost too warm in the room for that. 

“No,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss to his arm, which you were using as a makeshift pillow. His own pillow had been discarded across the room, as the pillowcase had been stained. “Not until tomorrow night.” Because you worked on Saturday, you had both Sunday and Monday off. 

“So…” he said, dragging out the vowel, “you’d be able to stay over tonight, then?” You opened your eyes and smiled at him, quirking an eyebrow suggestively. 

“You think you’re keeping me overnight, then, handsome fella?” you drawled, shifting yourself to snuggle up against him. “Bold today, aren’t we, John?” 

“O-Only if you want to,” John stammered, blushing. He hadn’t meant to assume anything, but you wanted to tease him anyway. Nothing that had happened today was according to plan, but neither of you was complaining. 

“I'll stay the night on one condition,” you told him, twirling your index finger through the patch of hair in the centre of his chest. His skin was almost too warm and a bit sweaty, but all you wanted was to be as close to him as possible. 

“Always conditions with you,” he smirked, kissing your forehead. His lips were plump, slightly swollen from all they'd endured over the last half hour. 

“I’ll stay here, and do whatever you feel like doing tonight,” you offered coquettishly, “as long as you’ll get up and find us something to eat for supper. I think our options are pretty limited at this point.” 

“I can pop down to the shops and pick something up in a few minutes,” he promised, stroking your hair. "Wouldn't want my lovely lady to go hungry." 

“Oh, I’m _quite_ sated at the moment, thank you,” you teased, “but I think we would both do well to get something substantial in our bellies, especially after the day we’ve had.” John’s stomach had felt much better after he’d managed to get some fluids back into his system, and the shower had cooled his body temperature down to a manageable level. He'd only had a bite or two of his lasagna apparently, for fear that he'd be sick again. 

“Alright then,” he proclaimed, sliding out from beneath your arm. “Food it is.” He clambered out of bed and walked over to his wardrobe, where he picked out a pair of trousers to replace the tracksuit bottoms he’d been wearing earlier. You giggled quietly as you admired his figure. 

“What are you on about over there?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder suspiciously. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you shrugged, smiling sweetly at him. “I just think you have a pretty cute bum for an old man.” 

“Respect your elders, young lady,” he growled, tossing a t-shirt across the room at you. “And put that on, I want to see you in it when I get home.” 

* * * * * 

John had given you the okay to use his telephone while he went down to the shops, so you quickly dialled your brother’s parole officer to see if you’d missed a message. It had been hours since you’d left your flat, and you had no idea what time you’d be back. The day had provided a much-needed break from your worries, but you were suddenly nervous at having been away from the phone for so long when your brother's whereabouts were unknown. 

“Thank God you called,” Judy exclaimed when she heard your voice. “I’ve been worried sick about you.” Her concern was audible, which sent your heart racing. 

“Have they found him?” you asked, sitting down on the floor and pulling the phone cord with you. Michael had dipped out on parole before, but this time somehow felt different, more sinister. He had gone AWOL on Saturday night, and it had been nearly 2 full days without any updates. 

“I’m afraid not, Y/N,” she informed you. You breathed out a heavy sigh and leaned against the wall behind you. “There's something else…” she paused, hesitating to continue. 

"If they haven't found him, what else could there be?” you demanded. "I'm tired of all of this, Judy. Michael is my brother, and I love him, but I don't know that I have the energy to do this again." 

“Have you been out of your flat all day?” she inquired. “You weren’t picking up when I called.” Her voice was oddly judgemental, not a trait you expected from her. In all the years you’d known Judy, she had always been very understanding of your situation. 

“I was out with a friend,” you said defensively, not feeling the need to share about what had happened with John. “Didn’t realize _I_ had to check in with you before leaving home as well.” 

“Someone broke into your apartment, and one of your neighbours called the police,” Judy told you frankly. “They found blood on the carpet, and you weren’t there, so you can understand why I'd be worried.” 

“Blood?” you asked, confused. “How much blood? Do they think it’s…” 

“I don’t know anything more than what I just told you,” she replied, “but I’m glad to hear it’s not yours. I was worried, Y/N. I know you said you’re not hanging about with your brother’s crowd any more, but still…” she trailed off. 

“Was anything taken, from what the police could tell?” You tried to think of what ‘valuables’ you’d had, but nothing came to mind. You weren’t one to collect expensive things like jewellery, nor did you have piles of cash sitting around, other than your tips from Saturday night. 

“You’d have to come take a look,” Judy explained. “So hopefully your ‘friend’ can give you a lift to your flat so you can make a statement to the police. You’ll have to stay somewhere else as well, because your flat is a crime scene until further notice.” Your head was spinning, and you weren’t quite sure if you understood what Judy was telling you. 

“So someone broke into my flat and made a real mess,” you repeated, your frustration level increasing by the second, “we have no idea where my brother is, and there’s blood on my carpet for unknown reasons?” 

“That about covers it,” Judy sighed. “Your mother has been made aware of the situation with Michael, so I'd recommend heading back to your place and dealing with that before anything else.” 

"Damn it, Judy," you hissed, "you know better than that." She knew very well that your mother was fragile, and wasn't in any state to be dealing with Michael's issues. Overwhelmed and angry with her admission, you started to rip into Judy for calling your mother, when the metallic scrape of the key in the deadbolt stopped you in your tracks.

The front door of John’s flat opened, and he appeared in the doorway with a paper bag of groceries in his arms. He grinned mischievously when he saw you in only his shirt and a pair of knickers, but his face fell when he saw the distress in your eyes. At the sound of John's voice, Judy hung up without saying goodbye, leaving you clutching the phone in your hand. 

“Everything alright, love?” he inquired, kneeling down beside you. You held back your tears, not wanting to get into this in front of him. 

“Something’s happened, John,” you explained, grimacing as you swallowed what felt like a knife in your throat. “There’s been a break-in at my flat. I don't know much more than that, but I need to know whether you’d be willing to drive me over there.” 

“Of course,” John said, drawing you towards him. He held you tightly against his chest, wanting to protect you. “You'll need to come back here afterwards," he stated decidedly. "You can’t stay there if it's been broken into, it isn't safe.” 

“I don't think I should,” you shook your head. "I don't want to be a burden." You echoed his earlier comment about himself, but this time, you knew that words or a comforting touch wouldn't be enough to fix things. Short of rewinding time, all that could be done was pick up the pieces. 

You tilted your chin up and pulled John into a kiss, long and slow, tucking away the sweet memories of today as you laced your fingers into his hair. As much as you didn't want it to be true, you knew that the moment John saw your flat, learned the truth about your past, your family, this would all be over. When you pulled back a minute later, he looked stunned, as if he had heard your thoughts. 

"I want you to come back here with me tonight," he said again, gripping your arms firmly. "Please don't run away from me, Y/N." You brought his hand to your face and kissed each of his knuckles, gripping his hand tightly as if you might blow away otherwise. 

“John, there are some things I need to tell you.”

**Author's Note:**

> *When John and reader start slow dancing, the song I envision them dancing to is "In A Sentimental Mood" by Duke Ellington*


End file.
